Don't Touch
by afastmachine
Summary: His little educational speeches had somehow left out the freakin' SEX FLOWERS. My take on the classic sex pollen trope.


Contains: Sex pollen, rough sex, outdoor sex(on deck), language. Sex. In case you hadn't guessed.

I apologize, my muse wanted sex pollen instead of the next chapter of The Devil Had Done For The Rest, and so I wrote sex pollen.

* * *

It all happens too fast.

One minute Emma is just standing there, very carefully _not_ touching the beautiful bright orange flower, just like Hook had said, and the next, the flower is opening, petals splaying wide. She barely has a chance to open her mouth to ask Hook about it before he's turning and tackling her to the ground.

She misses the worst of the pollen that the flower had sprayed, only a handful of the yellow specks landing on her jacket and hand. Hook, on the other hand, is covered in the fine powder, the back of his coat coated in the stuff.

There's even some in his hair and the side of his face, which would be amusing except for the fact that she knows it's not funny, that he wouldn't have freakin' _tackled_ her if it wasn't serious.

He rolls off of her with a huff and gets to his knees, carefully scanning the area to see if there are any more of those particular flowers.

"What _was_ what?", Emma asks as he gets to his feet, apparently satisfied with his assessment. He offers her his hand but he still isn't looking at her, hasn't looked directly at her since he tackled her.

"We'll be fine as long as we can make it back to the ship." His voice is careful and guarded, a couple notes lower than usual, and he's looking back up the way they came, seemingly trying to figure out how far they've come. Suddenly Emma feels a surge of anger that he's hiding something from her. They're stuck here together and he won't fucking _tell_ her what's going on.

"Right," Emma says, heaving herself up, ignoring the proffered hand. He doesn't react like she had hoped, just ignores her and continues studying the forest around them. Sighing, she dusts her hands off on her jeans and tries to reach behind her to clean off the pollen from her jacket.

As quickly as before, Hook takes a quick step towards her and shoots out a hand to stop her, freezing her wrist in his fingers.

"Don't, don't do that. Don't touch it," he says, and for the first time, he's looking at her. His eyes are wide and his pupils are shot open, deep black surrounded by a sliver of blue. Emma blinks, trying to clear her head from the fog that suddenly seems to have taken up residence there. It does no good, but through the haze she notices just how unnecessarily close he is, the absolute _heat_ radiating off of his body. She's watching him and he's watching her and it's like she's falling out of orbit, leaning towards his body, which suddenly seems like the greatest idea she's ever had. His breath is coming in little puffs against her face, hot, just like the rest of him.

And suddenly she feels the very real urge to close the distance between them and _kiss_ him, to feel every single inch of that hot skin pressed against her, to wrap her legs around his waist and bury her face in his neck and-

It feels like a bucket of ice being poured on her head, and she jolts, pulling her hand out of his. She takes two large steps back, breathing deep, trying to clear her head. Fuck.

He sways for just a second, leaning towards her before he blinks repeatedly, apparently trying to do the same. Her eyes travel downwards, across his body, cataloging his flushed skin(that she can see). She freezes when her eyes hit his lower half, those tight leather pants fitting just a little tighter than usual.

And instead of sending confusion or totally justifiable revulsion through her, she feels her insides spark, heat already spiraling between her legs at the sight.

"_Fuck,_" she repeats, out loud this time.

"Aye," he growls from across the path, where he's standing. He shifts, foot to foot, but now that Emma's noticing it's hard to _not_ notice his erection.

"Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckityfucking _fuck_," she says, scrubbing her face, trying to regain control of her...well, everything.

"Please stop saying that."

His strained voice draws her attention away from herself. She notices the way his jaw is clenched, muscles in his cheeks standing out clearly as he struggles, fists clenched at his sides.

"What the _fuck_ was that, Hook?" He winces at the vulgarity, but Emma is really having a hard time focusing on what he wants with the overwhelming urge to just jump him, to grind against his arousal and feel the sparks in her belly curl outwards.

He rubs at his eyes, his face, presumably trying to clear his thoughts.

"The flower. It's...special." He pauses, his eyes glazing over a little. Emma would slap him if she didn't know touching was a particularly bad idea right now.

"Hook!" She snaps at him instead, and he physically jolts, blinking lazily at her.

"We need to get back to the ship. Everything will be fine if we can just get back to the ship," he repeats from before, apparently zeroing in the goal. He starts stalking towards her and it takes everything Emma has to move out of his way instead of towards him. But his eyes are straight ahead, fixed on some point far ahead of him.

She doesn't blame him, because all she can see is the way his ass looks in leather as he retreats, heading back in the direction of the ship.

"Fuck," she mutters under her breath again. He's already picking up speed, his gait awkward and pained, Emma knows, but apparently he's channeling his desperation into something productive. Which she should be doing too. "Hook!" She yells after him, but he doesn't turn around, doesn't even pause.

Fuckfuckfuck_fuck_.

She hurries after him, trying to push aside the desire swimming in her veins and the wetness pooling between her legs. If they just make it back to the ship, she can take care of it herself and he can do the same and they'll be fine and she can yell at him about sharing information and skipping the weird sex flowers in his educational talks. Things will be fine. Awkward, but fine.

* * *

Neither of them are being particularly stealthy as they crash through the last stretch of wooded area before the beach. Emma hasn't said a word, trying to focus on anything but him, trying to allow him to do the same. But he has to know she's there, even if he stiffly continues to tramp down the path they'd previously made. Thankfully they hadn't gone very far, but every step still feels like walking through syrup, the haze of arousal making everything difficult.

They break through at just that moment and Emma has to catch herself before she runs head-first into his back.

The Jolly Roger was right there, suddenly a lot more beautiful than the last time she'd seen it that morning.

"Thank god," she moaned. For the first time since the clearing, he looked back at her, his eyes still dilated, but this time there was no mistaking the raw lust that coated them, his slack-jawed expression, the hunger there.

Fuck, she shouldn't have said anything.

With great effort, she avoided getting trapped in his gaze. Not when they were _so close_. Sidestepping him, she took off for the ship, a fast walk all she dared. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she could _feel_ her soaked panties, the slickness coating her thighs. She had to get back to her cabin _right now_, or she would not be able to be held responsible for what happened.

His footsteps in the sand behind her were impressively loud over the blood rushing in her ears.

* * *

Emma let out a huge breath of relief the instant her feet hit the deck. They'd made it. She was already heading towards the stairs that led below deck when she heard him behind her, the dull thunk as he came on deck.

And then she did the absolute stupidest thing.

She looked back.

He was watching her, of course, his eyes raking over her, probably mentally stripping off her clothes. She knew that's what she was doing. He looked fucking _obscene_, his hair sticking up from where he must have run his fingers through it, his shirt that he never bothered to button revealing his flushed chest, a teasing look at something she wanted to see _all_ of, his cock bulging against the laces of his pants. God, she wanted to wrap her legs around his hips, rut against him, feel every single line of him under her fingers.

She was so lost in her own haze that she missed his movement until it was too late and his mouth was already crashing into her, his arms coming up to pull her tight against his chest. He took advantage of her surprised gasp to sweep into her mouth, taking everything. Not one to be outdone, she fought back, clashing against him, fucking back into his mouth, nipping at him. He groaned, his hand and hook coming up against her ass, lifting her up. Obligingly, she wrapped her legs around him, her whole body jolting when their hips came in contact. His head rolled back and she took advantage of the moment to turn her attention to the long column of his neck, sucking and nipping at it.

He growled, low and long, the vibration shooting through Emma's chest and she bit down harder than absolutely necessary, too lost to notice what she was doing. As a sort of apology she smoothed her tongue against the bite, grinding her hips down against him. _God_, they needed to fuck _right now_.

Apparently, he had the same thought, because in just a handful of swift steps, she felt her back press against something hard and unyielding. Dimly she registered that it was probably the mast, and for a second she snapped out of it, pulling her mouth away from his skin, leaning back against the wood behind her. He took advantage of the moment to start his own assault, sucking hard at her pulse point, scraping his teeth against her skin.

Oh god, she was about to be fucked right here on deck, against the mast, where anyone could see, and she _wanted_ it, wanted it more than anything else in this moment.

"Hook," she murmured, trying to get his attention. He moaned, but didn't leave her neck, so she twisted her fingers in his hair and pulled, jerking him back enough to look him in the eyes.

The pain must have done something, snapped something in him, because the haze in his eyes vanished. There was still the lust, unrelenting, and his hips were still pressing into her, tiny little stuttering motions that she doubted he was even aware of, but there was guilt edging in on his face.

"Emma," he whispered, and suddenly his hand was gone from her ass, trying to pull away even though she _knew_ he was as bad off as her, that every single instinct was telling both of them to never pull away, to fuck until it was gone.

She didn't unlock her legs from around him, forcing him to lean his arms against the wood behind her to avoid falling over, keeping him from walking away and abandoning her without her answers.

"Any idea how long this is gonna last?" she asked, tipping her head forward to rest against his, their breath mingling.

"Didn't get hit this hard last time, so no," he heaved out. "Last time-" he stuttered, taking a deep breath, trying to focus. "Last time wasn't this bad, just took care of it in my cabin."

His eyes were starting to cloud again, and Emma knew he had been hit worse than her, that if she wanted him lucid for any longer she'd have to do something. She yanked on his hair again, and he groaned, his head falling against her chest, but he stilled against her.

"Sorry," she murmured and he lifted his head a little, nodding against her hands.

"Emma, listen," he said, pulling up far enough to gaze into her eyes. "If you don't want this, you need to go. Right now. Get in your cabin and shove something in front of the door." His voice started to break. "Because if you don't," he paused to take a deep breath, his hips twitching against her. "I won't - _can't_ stop." He dropped his head back against her, his chest heaving against hers.

"It wasn't like this last time, was it?"

He shook his head against her.

"Do you know what'll happen if we don't?"

There's a long pause where he's absolutely still, and for a moment Emma's worried she's lost him, but he slowly shakes his head again.

"Of course." She heaves out a breath, but it goes unnoticed. He's moving, his head tilting against her chin, his lips brushing her skin.

"Emma..." he whispers, and god, he sounds broken and terrified and through the haze of lust that is slowly retaking Emma, she feels sorry. Sorry about all this. Sorry she even stopped to look at that goddamn flower. That he's suffering because she screwed up.

In that second, she makes her choice.

She lifts his head away from her, and sees the resignation in his eyes, the way he starts to lean away from her, pull himself away the best he can.

She takes advantage of that instant and crashes her lips against his, simultaneously grinding down roughly against him, tightening her legs around his hips. There is no hesitation on his part. He kisses her back with equal fervor, his hand coming up under her chin to hold her head in place as he delves in, roughly fucking into her mouth as his hips mimic the action.

Releasing his hair, Emma drops her hands to his chest, runs across the skin exposed by his shirt, scratching at his dark chest hair. He groans into her mouth and presses her even harder against the mast, impossibly close.

His hand leaves her jaw and travels downwards, pausing briefly to rub against one of her breasts through her clothes, causing her to arch up against him, but he's already moving again, his hand expertly popping the button on her jeans and delving inside to rub against her right there and _jesus fuck_ she bites at his bottom lip, pulling it into her mouth.

He grinds his palm against her before sliding his fingers against her folds, two slipping inside easily. It sends sparks down her legs, just right but nowhere near enough. He slides out, and Emma moans at the loss. But he's tugging at her jeans and underwear, his hook cold against her thigh as he pulls, and she gets the memo, releases her legs and lets them drop to the deck. He follows, yanking them down her legs, roughly pulling her boots and socks off before stripping the rest off, throwing them across the deck, leaving her fully exposed.

"Jesus, fucking- _Hook_," she says as his hand wanders back up, sliding his fingers into her again. And then his breath is hot on her thighs and his mouth is _right there_ and oh _fuck_ the sudden assault is too much and she was already too close. His hook is heavy on her hip, pressing her into the mast. He licks at her clit, buries his face between her legs, his fingers scissoring inside her and she comes hard on him, gripping at his head again, legs trembling.

She loses time because the next thing she knows is that he's kissing her, fucking his tongue into her mouth, forcing her to taste herself on him, pressing against her, hard. His hand is busy between them, unlacing his pants until finally she feels him, burning hot against her skin as he ruts against her hip. She's still coming down from that spectacular orgasm but already she can feel her body ramping up, craving him inside her.

She growls against his mouth, and she can feel his lips twitch upwards, but he wants it as bad as she does, worse, in fact. In a single motion, he hitches her legs over his hips again and thrusts inside, going as deep as he can in one push.

He's sucking at her neck again, which is probably a good thing, because she grinds her teeth down hard at the sensation, all the air leaving her lungs at once. She was more than ready, but _god_, he's _huge_, filling her up, rocking into her, every movement sending sparks under her skin. The fire in her belly is already roaring again, demanding attention.

But he doesn't stop, of course not, she'd kick his ass if he did. He pulls out and thrusts again, and again, and again, setting a fast, rough pace that would hurt if she wasn't so turned on and relaxed from her first orgasm. His fingers are biting into her hip, pulling her against him at every thrust. She does her best to rock her hips against him, but it's really all she can do to wrap her arms around his neck and hold on as he pushes her against the mast. Every thrust is pressing the air out of her chest, and the way he's crushing her with his body isn't helping.

He lasts longer than she expected, but after spending _this long_ turned on, she's not surprised when his pace turns erratic, scrambled, as he tries to crawl inside of her, pressing her as close as he can. Quickly, Emma fumbles one of her hands towards her clit, and thankfully it takes only a second before she's coming again, and it's perfect timing as he crashes down on her, thrusting deep and stilling as he comes, his mouth open against the skin of her shoulder where he's tugged her blouse aside.

They're both breathing heavy, and everything is still. He's still buried inside her, but she can't bring herself to care right now, slipping in and out of awareness.

After who knows how long, she unlocks her legs, dropping one to the deck, already starting to feel a dull ache in her calves from the position, but she freezes when she feels him move. Apparently he notices at the same time she does, because he lets out a curse against her skin.

She screws her eyes shut. Fuck.

He's still inside her and he's growing hard again, pressing in with short, stunted rotations, and when he tilts his head up to catch her eyes, he's still glassy-eyed, lust overwhelming everything.

She sighs and leans her head back against the mast at the sensations, every movement of his, every shift, moving inside her. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Of course it wouldn't be that simple.

He drops his head to her skin, murmurs an apology into her neck, words tumbling out that she doubts he even knows he's saying.

But she can already feel her own fire warming up again, nerve endings standing to attention as he rocks against her, _inside_ her.

"Fuck," she moans, drawing it out. He grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn't stop moving, restless little circles of his hips. Flattening her hand against his chest, she pushes him lightly, enough to get him off of her, to draw his head away from her chest.

"We need to find a bed," she says, trying to catch his attention. He growls at her, deep and guttural and leans back in again to nip at her lips, ignoring her words.

Sighing, she threads her fingers back into his hair and yanks, pulling him back. He shudders against her, but his eyes focus on hers with much difficulty.

"Right," he murmurs, but doesn't move. Emma takes the initiative, dropping her other leg and gently pushing him away. He lets out a moan as he slips out of her, and she suppresses the urge to do the same. She aches everywhere, but at the same time, she feels her arousal muting it out, smothering everything in a comfortable warm blanket, demanding that she touch him, spread every inch of her skin across him.

Her legs are wobbly for more than one reason as she slides out of his shadow and reaches for the heap that contains her shoes and jeans, carefully picking them up.

She can feel his eyes boring into her, but she knows now that she can't look back, otherwise they'll just be repeating history, and enough of her senses have returned, at least for now, that she won't risk it, common sense telling her that they may have gotten away with sex on the deck once, but it wouldn't happen twice.

The stairs seem impossibly hard to navigate, even after the first step, but suddenly he's there, right next to her, good hand snaked around her waist as he carefully helps her down. It's a short walk to his cabin, but it's agonizing with him right there, his entire right side pressed against her.

Judging from the way his fingers are pressing into her waist, he feels the same way.

But either way, they make it, and he practically kicks the door open, yanking her inside with him. She barely has a chance to throw her things off to the side before he's crashing into her, and she's crashing right back into him. His mouth is on hers, attacking, trying to crawl inside, and she takes advantage of the moment to shrug out of her jacket, throwing it to the side. He growls, and without warning, his hook is there, tearing through her blouse. She yanks it away, too far gone to care about the destruction.

He lowers his mouth, following the newly exposed skin, down her collarbone and across her chest, mouthing at her breast through her bra. She arcs up but it's not enough contact, so she grabs his head and shoves him away, sending him stumbling. Confusion clouds his eyes for a minute, but when she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra, it seems to set him in motion. He instantly shrugs out of his coat and yanks off his vest, his shirt following quickly.

Emma's breath catches as she watches, skin aflame as she drinks in the sight. He leans down and pulls his boots off quickly, his pants following, and then he's naked and on her again, every inch of hot skin pressed against her and she wants to sob because it feels so fucking good.

"Oh, fuck," she moans again as he returns to her breasts, rolling one nipple in his hand while he mouths at the other, nipping and soothing with his tongue. He releases it with an obscene wet sound and smirks, apparently in enough control of his facilities to become cocky again.

"Believe me, love, I plan to." His smile is hot on her skin, but he pulls his head up, so close to hers that it's making her cross eyed. "Many, many times," he murmurs against her lips, before following, pressing against her, demanding entrance. Of course, she lets him, opens her mouth and savors the way he feels moving against her, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him as close as she can.

His hand goes to her ass again, kneading for a minute before lifting her up, pressing her against his door, knee firmly planted between her legs, high enough that when she stretches her toes she can't even feel the deck. She grinds down on him, doesn't care if it's desperate, because she's already too fucking hot, the feet of his chest rubbing against her hardened nipples, the way his blasted necklace is pressing into her skin. He groans into her mouth, apparently understanding the feeling, and slides his leg out from between hers.

It takes no urging for her to slide her legs around his hips again, let him hoist her up. He's so close, right there at her entrance, and she moans, trying to push down on him, to get him to move, but he chuckles darkly against her, holding her there with his hand on her hip while he nips at the skin on her neck that is already over-sensitive from earlier.

And then he stops holding her, lets her impale herself on him in one rush.

She keens, long and high, and he leans her back against the door, not moving, letting her wriggle down against him as far as she can.

"Jesus," she groans with what little air is still in her lungs, and he chuckles again, pulling his lips away from her neck.

"Hook, actually," he says, smirking, and she wants to slap that look off his face, or kiss it off, or fuck it off, she's not actually sure anymore.

She's interrupted from fantasizing about riding his face when he moves, pulling out and then thrusting in again, hard enough to rattle the door under her. It's hard enough for her to arch into him again, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly as he fucks into her again and again.

Deciding that she's long past the point of trying to think, she just lets go, gets lost in the feel of him against her, inside her, lets herself chase the orgasm that's building hard inside of her once again. She'll think later, when she can.

* * *

Emma blinked lazily at the ceiling above them, aware that the lust that's been sweeping her vision since she stood in that small clearing was finally starting to pull away. She's not sure how long it's been, hours, at least, but she doubts she'll ever really know.

They'd made it to the bed, eventually, and then back out of it, fucking on every flat surface in his cabin. It looked like a tornado had ransacked the room; books and papers that had been on his desk were scattered on the floor, their clothes were everywhere, which confused Emma because she hadn't remembered touching them after they'd stripped.

But as the time between the lust-filled hazes had started to expand, things had become slower, lazier. They hadn't left the bed in a while, the energy to do so slowly draining away.

And now Emma feels exhausted, every muscle weak and over-used. She knows Hook isn't any better, sprawled out next to her, shoulder to shoulder, where he'd rolled after their last time. They'd been floating for a while, in and out of awareness, and it had been long enough that Emma was pretty sure that whatever had been in that pollen had worn off. Mostly because there was no way she could handle any more, even if she wanted to.

She couldn't even muster the energy to be upset with herself, to be furious and frustrated and angry. Not that she could have done anything differently; from the way they'd gone at it, she doubted that simply trying to rub one(or two or a dozen) out would have worked for him or for her.

At least he's not trying to cuddle, recognizing that there's nothing romantic or sweet about what they'd done.

"So, are we gonna talk about it?" His voice interrupts her thoughts. When she doesn't say anything, he merely continues. "No," he says gruffly in a high-pitched voice. Switching back to his normal voice, he replies with "Oh, okay, we'll just ignore it and pretend it didn't happen until you just can't stand the tension and explode and we have hot angry sex and are back to square one."

"Oh, Hook," he says, back to the breathy high-pitched voice, and really, it's too much.

"I do _not_ sound like that," she says, turning her head to look at him, only to find his face inches from hers, grinning widely.

"Aye, lass, I think you do. After all, I heard it enough," he adds, his voice dropping, his eyes flicking to her lips as he licks his own.

"Seriously? Again?" Emma heaves out a sigh, and he blinks at her, confused for a second before he chuckles.

"No, darling, I doubt that even if we wanted to we could." He smirks. "Just me, now, and my dashingly attractive, incredibly charming, and mindblowingly good ordinary self."

"Riiiiight," Emma says, rolling her eyes.

"Really, love? That's offensive, and frankly, a bald-faced lie." He leans in, brushing his nose against hers. It doesn't really bother her, being that it's probably the least intimate thing they've done today, and she's absolutely fucked out of caring. "You and I both know that was the best sex of your life." He quirks an eyebrow, as though daring her to disagree.

She doesn't, of course, because that would be a lie, a rather transparent one, too. Instead, she throws it back at him. "I think you mean it was the best sex of _your_ life," she says, smirking triumphantly.

"I've lived a very long time, lass," he replies, evading the question.

"And?" Emma prompts, still grinning.

"And?" he mimics her, contorting his face. Emma laughs at that, full and deep, enough to feel the ache in her core. She pumps the air anyways, giddy with the victory.

"Are you quite satisfied, darling?" he asks, even though he's smiling with her.

"Yeah," she breathes, huffing out the last of her laughter. It comes out sounding far more serious than she intended.

"Good," he says, and though she's not watching him, she knows he's smiling.

And then she _feels_ him smiling, because his face is pressed against her neck, not moving, just breathing her in, head tilted against hers. She stiffens, two seconds from pushing him away.

"Relax, Emma," he says, pressing a light kiss to her shoulder, brushing gently at her hair.

And goddamn her, she does.

Eventually the others will return and she will have to get dressed and crawl out of his bed, and they will go back to normal, or as normal as can be achieved when you've seen every inch of someone's skin, seen what they look like from every angle when they come, when your body aches all over because you can only take so much of them fucking into you like they want you to choke on it.

But right now, she can not care. She can relax into him, and the way he's still touching her, his fingers drawing imaginary shapes against her skin.

They're starting to cool down, the unnatural fire from early disappearing with the never-ending lust. Emma weakly twitches her foot against the covers at the foot of the bed, her tiredness overwhelming her chill, for now. Hook must feel it setting in too, though, because he sighs and sits up, pulling the covers up and over the both of them.

It's comfortable and he's soft and gentle and when his arm comes around her shoulders, pulling her towards him, she doesn't fight, lets him curl her against him.

Later, she'll let herself panic and freak out and get mad and worry, but right now, she's lazy and sated, bone-weary and exhausted. Right now she's going to flatten her hand against his chest and tuck her head against him.

Right now she's going to close her eyes and drift away.

And so she does; the last thing she remembers is his hand brushing her hair over her shoulder.


End file.
